


Perfection

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12743880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: The extremely fluffy morning after...An epilogue, and part 15 of theAftermathseries.





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Part 15 of 15 of the [Aftermath](https://archiveofourown.org/series/848343) series. Many thanks to everyone who's read, left kudos, and/or comments!
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She had been lying there in bed with her eyes closed, swimming up from some unfathomable depth of slumber with surprising difficulty. Her muzzy brain shied away from some of the less comfortable aspects of the previous few days. It slowly focused, instead, on simpler things. 

Physical sensation: the comfort of her familiar bed; the quiet, though she could tell it was long after break of day; the scent of the sheets-- and of Sherlock. His breath was deep and even as he lay warm and solid against her back, his arm heavy round her waist, his hand curved possessively over her breast. 

She was aware of an odd and somewhat nebulous sense of well-being -- undeniable, if not entirely logical in the face of… everything..

After the most stressful brunch in the history of mankind had ended and the guests dispersed, the remainder of the day had truly been golden. She and Sherlock had, indeed, gone immediately back to bed, and had spent hours napping and making love by turns. Dinner (Chinese, delivered) and a quiet evening had followed… but then had come the _night._  

It had been nothing short of astonishing. A shiver ran through her, and a kind of ache assailed her as she recalled, however imperfectly, various moments... and then the last of it…. the intensity of it… the sounds of their cries… the way she had felt after it was over, body and soul.... as though she were burnt to ash. 

That he could do such a thing to her… make her feel that way… that he was capable of it, even with it being new to him... 

She had expected him to be a fast learner, but he would kill her at this rate. 

But what a way to go, she could not help thinking, and grinned at the cliché, stifling a giggle, even as she opened her eyes, almost ready to face the world again. 

The clock on the nightstand read 9:23. 

She lay there for a few more minutes, trying to decide whether to attempt to slip from the bed and shuffle off to the loo (she had not yet tested her theory, but she was fairly certain there would be some residual soreness -- not entirely unpleasant, of course), or merely settle in and try to go back to sleep for an hour. She had just decided on the latter when there came the sound of her doorbell ringing in the distance, and then a sharp sequence of raps. 

Sherlock, who had seemed dead to the world a moment earlier, had frozen and gave a kind of gasp at these noises, and before they’d even died away he growled, “ _What the devil!_ ”, abruptly released her, and got out of bed, staggering almost drunkenly as he reached for his dressing gown. 

She’d turned onto her back and half sat up, saying worriedly, “What is it? Do we _have_ to answer it? Maybe it’s just a delivery from Amazon or… or something. They can leave it on the porch.” 

“Maybe,” he said, but warily, his expression wide awake and very sharp. 

As he turned from her and strode toward the bedroom door, she scrambled up from the bed, groaning inwardly as yes, there was _considerable_ residual soreness, grabbed her own dressing gown and threw it on over her nakedness as she scuttled after him, out and down the stairs. 

They reached the front door at approximately the same time as he had paused to first peer furtively out the window. He turned to her and said, quietly, “They’ve driven off, whoever _they_ are, but it looks like there _is_ something on the front porch. Let me open it. You stand back.” 

She nodded, and backed away slightly, clutching her hands together. He unlocked the door, very quietly, opened it with great stealth, and peeked out. Then gave a groan and opened the door wider. 

“What is is?” she demanded, coming closer, close enough to see what was out there: an enormous vase of pink, long stemmed roses, at least two dozen of them; a large brown box with a pink envelope attached to the outside of it, and another cardboard box in a configuration Molly recognized with a thrill: a cat carrier. “Oh! Oh, what is _this_?” 

“Molly, you’d better let me open--” But Sherlock’s words were interrupted by a tiny _Meow!_ and a scrabbling sound, as of tiny claws against the cardboard interior. “Oh,” Sherlock said, disconsolately. 

But Molly gasped and knelt swiftly and opened the top of the carrier. The most adorable pure white Persian kitten with blue eyes and a blue bow to match stared up at her for a long moment before repeating that tiny plea: _Meow!_ “Oh, you darling!” she exclaimed joyously, and reaching in, scooped the kitten up into her hands. She held it close, petting the little head with one finger. 

“ _Molly!_ ” Sherlock almost whined. 

Molly laughed and looked up at him. “Open the envelope, there, on the box!” 

“Probably from Mycroft,” he muttered, but did as she said, and then exclaimed “Bloody Hell!” as he took in the note. 

“Was it Mycroft?” 

“And Andrea. I think it was she who noticed your catless state when they brought that team to search the flat the day before yesterday. Mycroft paid for all of this, of course. There’s a bloody pedigree here, too. It’s a boy: Hobbes out of Catalan and Marigold. Hobbes? He’s not tiger-striped!” 

“He’s brilliant, and that’s quite enough” Molly said happily. “Can you bring everything in? We’ll see what’s in the box, and maybe you can put the roses… up in the bedroom? That’s where we’ve been, mostly.” 

“Well, _that’s_ at an end, now you’ve got Toby the second here.” 

She looked up at him quickly. “Do you… Sherlock, do you really mind so much? He won’t be any trouble!” 

He looked extremely conflicted for a moment, and then blurted, “I wanted a _dog!_ ” 

Molly laughed. “We can get a dog, too! But Mycroft probably didn’t want to usurp your right to choose a breed, Dogs are different.” 

“They certainly are,” he muttered, and proceeded to move all the gifts from the porch into the foyer.   

Once he’d closed the door, however, Molly said, “Here, you take Hobbes,” and she handed over the kitten which Sherlock accepted with some reluctance. “I’ll take the roses upstairs and use the loo. In fact, would you mind if I took a quick shower?” 

“No, go ahead,” Sherlock said, unhappily. 

Molly came to him and, standing on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, somewhat appeased. 

Chuckling to herself, she picked up the vase and climbed up the stairs.

 

*

 

Her plan had worked. When she came downstairs again, feeling much better for some time alone in the loo and dressed in a new pale green nightshirt (and white lace knickers, for later) she found her erstwhile lover lying on the sofa, rapidly texting someone on his mobile, and providing a bed for Hobbes, who was curled in a tiny fluffy ball on his chest.. 

“You’ve made friends?” Molly asked. 

“More or less.” 

“Who are you texting? You’re not giving Mycroft a scold?” 

“Not at all. It’s Andrea I’m scolding. I told her she’d better send over a dog to go with the cat. Something in the hound line, with a nose on it.” 

“Like that bloodhound your friend has?” 

“Possibly. We’ll see what she comes up with.” 

“And you’re actually asking her to do that for you?” She sat down on the edge of the sofa beside him and petted Hobbes’ soft forehead with one finger. 

“Andrea’s good at legwork. That’s why she’s been with Mycroft for so long. I, on the other hand, have better things to do.” And finally he looked up and put down his mobile, then took up her hand. He fingered the ruby ring thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I was… less than welcoming toward Hobbes.” 

She nodded, and leaned down to kiss him, smiling as his hand slid beneath the nightshirt and encountered the lace knickers. 

“Mmm, lace,” he said with approval. “May I see?” 

“Don’t you want to have a bath first? And we should probably eat something. All three of us should, in fact.” 

He sighed. “If you insist. Here, take your new friend, then.” 

While Sherlock loped up the stairs and presently could be heard making use of the shower, Molly opened the big box, which turned out to be full of accessories for Hobbes. She swiftly set up the new litter box, bed, and toys, and fed the kitten from a dish that was painted in an ornate blue and white pattern. After eating, Hobbes used the litter box, then curled up in his bed for another nap. 

Molly chuckled. 

She started cooking breakfast -- bacon, eggs, beans and toast – she felt they needed the protein -- but when Sherlock came back into the room, looking appreciably fresher, she told him of Hobbes’ exemplary behavior and added, “Trust Anthea to find the perfect cat!” 

“Told you she’s good at legwork,” he said. “But look at this.” He gave her his mobile. 

Molly read Anthea’s last text, _Cousin in Exmoor has one Basset Hound pup left, are you interested?_

Sherlock said eagerly, “Do you fancy a drive out to Exmoor this afternoon?” His face was alight; he looked rather like a small boy considering the prospect of Christmas. 

“This is… a Basset Hound? Are you sure?” 

“It’s one of the oldest of the hunting breeds, French in origin, sturdy and friendly to children –- and _cats_ \-- and surpassed only by the Bloodhound in ability to track.” 

But Molly said, “That’s not exactly what I meant. I mean… we seem to be moving at speed toward… um… domestic bliss. _I’m_ all for it, but… are _you_ sure?” 

A look of exasperation replaced some of his eagerness and he replied, “Molly, it’s been _six years!_ ” 

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Why _would_ she object to such an unusual six-year courtship? This was _Sherlock_. He was worth waiting for. Worth _anything!_

So she gripped the edge of his dressing gown and pulled him down and kissed his cheek. “Exmoor it is,” she told him decisively. 

He gathered her close and kissed _her_ , now, on the lips, hard and quick, and then, the boyish enthusiasm returning, said, “But you didn’t scroll down – that’s the best bit! _The game is on!_ Take a look.”

She did as she was told and burst into laughter again at the picture that came into view. “Oh, Sherlock! He’s _perfect!_ ” she exclaimed. 

And he grinned and said, with great satisfaction, “I know!”

 

~.~

 

 

 


End file.
